Party of Two
by Team D
Summary: It was his ninetieth birthday party, and Leonard McCoy was determined to enjoy himself if it killed him.


**A/N: **This story was sparked by what would have been DeForest Kelley's 90th birthday, January 20, 2010. Rest in peace, De.

**Disclaimer: **Paramount owns Star Trek...at least on paper.

**Thanks **to igiveup and Rose Moss for the beta. And thanks, Dad and Mom, for creating Team D!

**PARTY OF TWO**

It was his ninetieth birthday party, and Leonard McCoy was determined to enjoy himself if it killed him.

At least Joanna, knowing him as she did, had made it a _party_. Not a roast; and not, God forbid, a testimonial dinner. McCoy grimaced. _That would've been fun—listening to my eulogy before I'm dead._

Just a simple little 5-course buffet catered spread in the biggest ballroom of the biggest, most expensive hotel in Atlanta, now bedecked with multicolored balloons, gold and silver streamers, and an enormous banner: Happy 90th! Just a friendly birthday get-together, with a guest list restricted to everybody he'd ever met in his entire life.

He settled into the soft, red-velvet-upholstered armchair reserved for the guest of honor and watched the staff finishing preparations. Now all he needed were a nice inconspicuous robe and scepter. _The whole damn galaxy coming to watch me grow old—_

"Having fun yet, Dad?" Joanna, at his elbow, handed him a frosty mint julep. "I know we're a little early. I just wanted to make sure everything is ready. And I think a few people are already starting to arrive."

_Yep, everybody I've ever known_. His blue eyes softened, then twinkled, at the sight of his daughter's eager face, and his first genuine smile of the day curved his mouth. "I'm doing fine, JoJo, just fine." She squeezed his arm gently and headed back toward one of the buffet tables.

He'd enjoyed the birthday barbecue. Everyone had been there, with the happy noise, good food, and loving gifts that always marked McCoy family celebrations at the Conyers plantation. That's when Joanna and her husband, Dallas, grinning like Cheshire cats, had sprung the family's big surprise—the party in Atlanta. "Everyone wants to celebrate you, PopPop—you're a legend!" his grandson Davy had said proudly.

_C'mon, McCoy, you got no kick coming—you're a lucky man and you know it._ Besides Joanna and Dallas, three of his four grandchildren and their spouses would be there—Lenny and his wife couldn't make it back from his field assignment on Praxis IV. Even the great-grands, including the sulky thirteen-year-old who'd sworn off "this boring family stuff", had, it seems, been looking forward to this for months.

He sipped his drink, and then it hit him again.

Everyone he'd ever met?

Not even close. And the absences, the voices forever silenced, were louder and more present to him than the Dixieland band now warming up near the dance floor.

McCoy could feel the hollow ache of loss building in his throat and chest. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he expelled it slowly through slightly pursed lips. _Twenty-five years later, and I'm still getting ambushed_.

Scotty. Scotty should be here now, splendid in his kilt and plaid, chaffing McCoy about the julep in that earnest brogue of his, drinking Glenivet, skirling "When the Saints Go Marching In" on that damned bagpipe.

_I told him retirement would kill him._ Except, he'd never had the chance to try it. After decades of Starfleet service in the most dangerous areas of the galaxy, Scotty had been lost on the way to the retirement colony where he'd finally been going to catch up on his technical journals.

Scotty, gone forever. _But at least Scotty was with Jim when_—

_Jim._

_What was it I said, when he asked me to go with him to that launch? "Launching another Enterprise_,_ Jim? Doesn't that ever get old? No, I think I'll skip this one. Call me when you get back."_

But he'd never come back. Jim, the invincible Captain James T. Kirk, with the devil-may-care smile, that damn cockiness—so sure he knew everything, could get away with anything. That loyalty to his crew, the almost pathological determination to bring everyone home safe, had been his undoing. _Jim…mortal after all, and vanished._

McCoy stared into the depths of his drink and smiled wistfully. How Jim would have loved this party! _He was good at parties, good with people. _He'd have worn his full dress uniform, flirted with the single women, been gallant to the married ones. _And he damn well would have charmed the socks off everyone in the room. _He would have brought some outrageous birthday present—a tribble, maybe. And the stories he'd tell! _I can just hear him. "Bones, do you remember—?" "You mean Bones never told you about the time when—?"_

_My God…nobody's called me "Bones" in twenty-five years. _

"Dad? Are you okay?"

McCoy looked up, startled. Ever since his hospitalization last month, Joanna had started sounding a lot like McCoy himself with a recalcitrant patient: meddling, needling, mother-hennish. "Of course I'm okay!" he heard himself growl, and instantly regretted it at the surprise and hurt in her eyes. Then, warmly: "I'm fine, JoJo. Just thinking about the old days. You start doing that at my age."

Her hand came down, warm and gentle, over his. "You mean Captain Kirk," she replied, seeing right through him as usual. "I know—"

"And Scotty."

"And Scotty," she agreed softly. "I know, Dad. I know. I'm so sorry."

McCoy forced a smile. "No, honey, I'm sorry. Here you go to all this trouble and I sit here being a sour old goat. A man can't expect everyone to last ninety years."

Relieved, she kissed his forehead. "I'm glad you have."

Joanna went off to say something to the bandleader, and McCoy watched as the first few guests came trickling in. He reminded himself that not everyone who wasn't coming was gone forever. Sulu couldn't leave his duties as chief botanist on the Braeburn agricultural colony, but he'd nurtured and sent the biggest, most fragrant hybrid mint plant McCoy had ever seen. Uhura was in the middle of her xenolinguistics lecture series, and for some reason the University of Nairobi wouldn't revamp its whole schedule to accommodate an old country doctor's birthday. She'd sent him a holovid of herself singing his favorite songs, and he could hardly think of a better present. _Almost as good as having her here._ And Pavel Chekov—_Chekov!_—now had a grown granddaughter, getting married today in Tblisi. McCoy chuckled: _Even Georgia was invented in Russia. _At least the boy had sent a bottle of vodka instead of one of those grim Russian novels.

McCoy got up from the throne-like chair and went to greet the early guests. Doctor Emory—he'd flit in and out as he always did, the conscientious hospital administrator checking another item from his To Do list. The Tellarite visiting lecturer, Zev Poldo, grunted a greeting and headed straight for the Saurian brandy. A hotel staffer handed McCoy a message: Doctor Chapel was running late, but she'd get there if she had to break every speed limit in Georgia.

With a smile, he returned to his red velvet throne, imagining Christine Chapel outrunning the police. So, there _were_ still some people he really cared about who were going to come—

—and then there was Spock.

McCoy finally faced the thought he'd been evading all day. Spock wasn't coming. He probably hadn't even replied to the invitation McCoy was sure Joanna had sent. _And damned if I'm going to ask her._

Well, that figured. That just blasted figured. They'd known each other for decades. Couldn't count the number of times he'd saved Spock's life. _Never mind that I got my brains scrambled carrying his damn katra. _Never mind that he'd risked life and sanity to undergo the fal-tor-pan, to put Spock together again.

_Hell, all I ever did for him was raise him from the dead, and for what? So he could go off on some damn fool super-secret diplomatic mission, of course. He's gonna get his skinny green ass killed one of these days. Yup, no reason he should bother to RSVP._

_You're getting to be a petty old coot_, he chastised himself sharply, sipping his julep, but in the back of his mind he could imagine Spock, dryly explaining: _Last year, Doctor, you turned eighty-nine. The fact that this year marks your ninetieth birthday, therefore, is unremarkable. I see no logic in deeming it particularly significant._

It's not like they hadn't kept in touch over the years, but something had obviously changed. _Not that_ _hard to figure out, McCoy. It's Jim. _The captain had been the glue that had held Spock and McCoy together in their triumvirate—the "Three Musketeers", some in Starfleet called them. With Jim gone, McCoy had immediately applied for Starfleet reserve status and returned to Earth to teach, do research and work part-time at his daughter and son-in-law's practice. Spock, already a skilled mediator, had taken on numerous diplomatic missions for his father, Ambassador Sarek, and become an adjunct professor at the Vulcan Science Academy.

_I thought at least we'd have science in common. We've had some interesting exchanges about biochemistry and xenophysiology over the years, and—and that's about it. Interesting, impersonal exchanges. _But there had been that one last time—and he knew he hadn't imagined it—when he'd felt the old Enterprise connection. _On Vulcan, when Amanda…._

Suddenly aware that he was getting too caught up in his reverie, McCoy shifted slightly in his chair and made sure he was smiling. _Dammit, McCoy, quit your woolgathering! You want Joanna over here again fussing over you? _Relieved that no one had seemed to notice, he again silently vowed to enjoy himself, no matter what.

McCoy held the julep out at arm's length, appraising it. It was good, one of the best he'd had, adorned with a fresh leaf from Sulu's gift mint. _Better nurse it along. Gonna be a long night_—

A slight commotion at the ballroom door drew McCoy's attention. Somebody's arrival was making a stir—_probably some damn fool Admiral whose name I won't remember_—

A Vulcan emerged from the knot of people at the door. He spoke briefly to a waiter, who pointed at McCoy.

The old doctor's heart momentarily leaped. Then, just as abruptly, it froze, sank, and started thudding painfully.

Not Spock—of course it wasn't Spock. This was a young man, of medium height and compact build, not tall and rangy like Spock. He wore the slate-blue robes and IDIC insignia of the Vulcan Consulate, his hands tucked into the ample sleeves. Naturally, his face was unreadable. No way to tell why he'd come, what his business was, how he might feel about it—

_Feel, hell! He's a Vulcan. Probably wouldn't know a feeling if it came up and bit him on the…._

And then he knew why the man had come.

Spock was dead. Had to be. No other reason some strange Vulcan would be showing up here. The Vulcan government didn't give a damn about McCoy's birthday. Just a way of finding him, to convey the news.

He could hear Joanna's footsteps hurrying toward him. "Dad, what's wrong? You've gone absolutely white."

"Spock," he managed to whisper, his eyes still fixed on the young Vulcan, who was now coming toward him.

"Dad, I don't understand."

"Spock," he repeated, "he's…." Joanna's hands came down warm and firm on his shoulders as she crossed behind him.

The young man's measured pace had brought him up to face McCoy. He drew his right hand from his left sleeve and offered the Vulcan salute. "Peace and long life, Dr. Leonard McCoy." His voice was deep-pitched and quiet. His eyes, tawny brown, flicked up to Joanna's face and then back to McCoy. His right eyebrow lifted a couple of centimeters. "If I read Human body language correctly, you find my presence alarming. Please be assured, such a reaction is unjustified."

"Just get on with it," McCoy licked dry lips and rasped: "What happened? How did Spock die?"

For a quarter of a nanosecond, the Vulcan looked mildly confused. "Ambassador Spock has mentioned the Human proclivity for drawing erroneous conclusions in the complete absence of data. I had not realized that the tendency was so pronounced."

The tight band around McCoy's heart began to relax. "You mean—then Spock's _alive?_"

In reply, the young man lifted his left hand, letting the sleeve fall back to disclose that he was holding an ornate bag. Its heavy dark-blue brocade was embroidered with the IDIC symbol that represented the Vulcan planetary government. "The Ambassador instructed me to convey this to you." Deftly, he untied the cords that held the bag closed, reached in, and withdrew a smaller bag, this one a plain silvery silk. "The logical inference is that he is, indeed, alive. There is no recorded instance of the dead sending a message via my government's diplomatic pouch."

He held the silken bag out to McCoy, who accepted it with slightly shaking hands, glad he was sitting down. The drape of the shining fabric indicated that the bag held something long and rectangular, as well as a square, solid object. The silk was smooth and cool against the doctor's hands. A heavy silken cord formed a drawstring which held the mouth of the bag shut.

The Vulcan envoy moved discreetly back and to one side, tucking his hands back into his sleeves.

McCoy examined the knot on the silken cord and swiftly undid it; his trembling fingers still moved with speed and surety, the product of decades of surgical practice. He reached for the long rectangular object, expecting to find a single-message padd.

Instead, the thing proved to be a neatly-folded packet of Vulcan papyrus. This, McCoy knew, was a costly material, usually reserved for archival copies of works considered integral to Vulcan culture.

**Private—Hand Carry by Diplomatic Pouch, Deliver to Recipient Only**

was neatly written on one side of the packet, in Spock's familiar hand: firm, precise, every stroke perfectly proportioned, the words exactly aligned with the folded edge of the packet. On the other side, more writing in the same precise script:

**From: Ambassador Plenipotentiary S'chn T'gai Spock, Clan Hgrtcha, House of Sarek, Shi'Kahr, Vulkanis**

**To: Captain Leonard H. McCoy (Starfleet Reserves), M.D., Professor Emeritus Starfleet Medical, Atlanta, Georgia, New South, Earth**

"Well," McCoy said softly, turning the packet carefully in his hands. "Would you look at that." The flap of the packet was fastened with a dollop of deep-blue wax, placed in the very center and imprinted with Spock's family seal.

Working hard to relax the trembling of his lips and hands—he would _not_ break down in front of that damned smug Vulcan envoy!—McCoy gently broke the wax. He could feel Joanna lean forward and slightly tighten her grip on his shoulders, shamelessly preparing to read over his shoulder.

The letter was in Spock's hand as well—no secretary, no intermediate—Spock had gone to some trouble here.

**Stardate:**** 20192.0**

**Leonard:**

Leonard? _Not "Doctor"? Spock hasn't called me by my given name since—_

_Hell, since never. He never uses anyone's given name. Except Jim's. . . ._

**Please forgive the outward formality. Since I am currently not on Vulcan, I chose to dispatch this communication by special courier to insure that my message would arrive on the above referenced stardate. Rest assured that I am well: the unusual transmission method does not indicate an emergency. Using diplomatic channels is the most efficient and logical method in this instance.**

_Logic, eh? First you call me "Leonard", then you start talking logic and_ _efficiency. Face it, Spock, you're getting sentimental in my old age._

**I was concerned to learn that you were hospitalized while I was incommunicado during my latest diplomatic mission. Your daughter's first message—**

McCoy turned, indignant, to glare up at Joanna. "You _told_ him? You called _Spock_ to tell him I was sick?"

"Dad, you were calling for him. You kept saying, 'Where's Spock? Find him, find Spock'."

"Well, I must have been out of my head, then!"

"You were," his daughter retorted. "And you're my father, and I was frantic. Anyway, I didn't talk to him. I tried to reach him through the Consulate, but all they could do was take a message."

"It was just an infection," the old man grumbled, turning back to his letter. _All right. So it was a bad infection. So it took two days in ICU and six more in the hospital to knock it down. So what if I was lying in bed babbling, while Spock was off somewhere saving the damn universe. It was dark in that ICU, and the Vians…I knew I was dying and Spock….Just a little ICU psychosis. Doesn't mean a thing._

"And I can still wash out your mouth with soap, young lady," he muttered, hearing Joanna mumble, "'Just an infection', my ass," behind him.

—**Your daughter's first message indicated you were quite impatient to contact me while you were confined. No doubt your confinement was a lesson in patience for your caregivers as well.**

_Pot, meet Kettle! You weren't exactly a model patient yourself, Mr. 'I-Believe-I'll-Return-to-My-Station-Now'!_

**It is gratifying to know that you are now fully recovered.** _Guess JoJo sent him updates, _McCoy thought, smiling up at her in apology.

**Knowledge of your illness has guided my recent meditations toward my time on the Enterprise with you and Jim, and the transitory nature of life, especially Human life. I did not tell you the last time I saw you, when you so kindly shared the katra fi'salan ceremony for my mother**—

"The which ceremony?" asked Joanna, over his shoulder.

"The katra fi'salan. It means 'souls in the wind'. It's something like a funeral."

The Vulcan envoy, standing to one side and certainly not consciously eavesdropping, glanced quickly at McCoy; as quickly, he resumed his customary impassivity. Yet it seemed to the old doctor that there was a new, indefinable attitude of respect from the young man.

"That's right," Joanna was saying. "You were on Vulcan when Lady Amanda died."

_You bet I was, JoJo. Spock called me himself: his mother's case was terminal and she was 'no longer entirely comfortable with her Vulcan physicians'. He said he wanted a referral. But he damn sure jumped on it when I offered to come myself. Dear Amanda. Glad I could be there, to give her a little Human tenderness at the end._

For a moment he sat quietly, remembering the ceremony, five years and a lifetime ago. The hot, thin, incessant Vulcan wind. Reddish cliffs, shimmering through thermal waves. Spock, stone-faced, at his father's side. The glint of a single tear on Sarek's immobile face.

McCoy blinked away a few tears of his own, and resumed reading.

. . . **I did not tell you the last time I saw you, when you so kindly shared the katra fi'salan ceremony for my mother, but it was—and still is—difficult to realize that her essence is in a place I cannot access. And yet I feel a sense of expectation rather than loss. It is much different from the deep apprehension I experienced upon learning of your illness, and the almost instant calm that came when I was told that you are well. Most ****puzzling.**

_Not puzzling at all, my Vulcan friend. Except to you. They're called "feelings". Your mom died, and you hope to see her again, so you feel! Wait a minute…you experienced "deep apprehension" and "instant calm"? __You almost sound worried about me, Spock._

McCoy shook his head and then reached up and gently squeezed his daughter's hand. "Poor old Spock. Still trying to be more Vulcan than Surak himself."

**Today you celebrate your ninetieth birthday**—_Thanks for the reminder!—_**a noteworthy milestone for a member of your species. My time-sense tells me that we have been acquainted (in Standard Earth Time) for 43 years, 8 months, 12 days, 7 hours, 32 minutes, and 13 seconds as of this writing.**

"Pointy-eared, cold-blooded computer—", McCoy snorted.

"What was that, Dad?"

"Nothing, JoJo."

**My logic fails me, however, when I contemplate these numbers; it is difficult to recall a time when you have not been a part of my life. Paradoxically, it is also interesting to note how quickly time seems to have passed since we last spoke face to face, rather than by vid-message or padd message. While such two-dimensional communication is suitable for many diplomatic uses, I find myself increasingly dissatisfied with its use in personal matters.**

**That being said, I regret that I am unable to attend the celebration that your daughter is hosting as you read this message. I trust that you, your daughter and son-in-law, your grandchildren, great-grandchildren, your many friends, colleagues, and such patients as have survived your ministrations**—

"Why, you ungrateful, green-blooded hobgoblin—!" McCoy broke off, suddenly mindful of the envoy standing nearby. But it was unlikely that the Vulcan had heard anything over Joanna's burst of laughter.

—**and such patients as have survived your ministrations are enjoying your time together.**

**Please accept the gifts accompanying this letter in recognition of the occasion.**

McCoy returned his attention to the silk bag in his lap. He had almost forgotten the square object still inside it. Now he took that out.

A flat, square box, its hinged lid worn smooth by much handling. The lid was ornamented with delicate parquetry—dozens of minute pieces of wood in a myriad of colors, intricately assembled to form the image of a rose. No Vulcan piece, this; he'd seen it dozens of times on the table by Amanda's favorite chair.

He heard Joanna's, "Oh how lovely!" Then he slowly raised the lid. They both gasped.

Infinite diversity in infinite combinations—the IDIC symbol's deceptively simple design had been reproduced in uncounted ways, from bas-reliefs on temple doors to school-jacket insignia patches. The specimen in the square box used a plain, rough-textured, silver-gray stone slab for the foundation circle. The stone was shot through with tiny veins of copper, silver and copper iridescence glimmering softly as McCoy gently turned the box in his hand.

"This stone…it's from Mount Selaya, isn't it?" McCoy breathed softly.

"Indeed, Doctor," the envoy replied.

Intersecting the foundation circle, the isosceloid triangular wedge was carved of tir-nuk wood, that rarest of Vulcan materials, artfully stained to bring out and display the grain. The wedge's ruddy-gold color subtly highlighted the copper veining in the stone foundation circle, and while the circle was rough, nearly abrasive, the wedge was smooth and shining as sculpted ice.

The transparent circular jewel at the point of the wedge shattered the ambient light into a thousand spectra. At first, McCoy thought it must be a marvel of gem-cutting. But when he ran his thumb gently across the jewel, it proved as smooth as the wedge. The prismatic effect must be the result of something within the stone itself. McCoy had never seen the like; but the envoy, both eyebrows raised, was barely able to suppress a gasp as he stepped forward, his tawny eyes fixed on the glittering crystal.

"A firestone from Mount Seleya," he murmured, his voice not quite neutral. "Exceedingly rare. Most difficult to work."

Reluctantly, McCoy tore his eyes from the wonder in his hand and looked back at the letter.

**You may recognize the teakwood box as the one you admired during visits to my parents' home. It belonged to my mother. Sarek wishes you to have it.**

A lump constricted McCoy's throat.

**The IDIC inside was made by Sotal, the most revered craftsman on Vulcan.**

"_The_ Sotal?" Joanna said incredulously.

The envoy's right eyebrow rose, and he said, "Sotal's work is done by commission only. Each piece takes, at the least, one of your Terran years to create. Remarkable."

McCoy shook his head in wonder and began to read again.

**Leonard**—

_"Leonard" again!_

—**you have been pivotal in helping me reconcile my diverse natures. You have helped me understand that division need not destroy; it can be creative and beneficial. What I once perceived as your illogical, irritating, and vociferous desire to meddle in my affairs, I now see as a rare gift.**

McCoy's eyebrows were now lifted as high as the envoy's had been. From decades past, he could almost hear Spock's cold voice: "You will cease to pry into my personal affairs, or I shall certainly break your neck." Of course, Spock had been suffering through pon farr at the time; and that Spock could never have written this calm, measured letter. This letter, that spoke of the doctor's prying as a rare gift . . . .

"Dad, this is personal," Joanna said softly. "Why don't I go and—well, I'll find something." She kissed the top of her father's head, and left him to go on reading in privacy.

**You were attempting to help me see myself, and to see myself as others see me. Indeed, our many discussions**—

_So that's_ _what he calls all those arguments he'd never admit I won!_

—**our many discussions seem to illustrate a saying from the Book of Proverbs in your Terran Bible: "As iron sharpens iron, so a man sharpens his friend.**"

_His friend. His friend! My God, he came right out and said it._

As he began to read the letter's penultimate paragraph, the old doctor sat up straight and leaned a little forward. One hand firmly gripped his priceless gift; but the other, despite his best efforts, started once again to shake.

**In three Standard days, I will arrive on Earth for a week of meetings regarding a trade agreement between Vulcan and Ca'naita'n (a new Federation member), and then some extended personal time. Ca'naite'n customs dictate that such negotiations must be held on a neutral world. Therefore, I have scheduled the meetings to be held in Atlanta, Georgia, near the transport hub. Rather than staying at the New South Vulcan Consulate, I have arranged for a suite of rooms facing the Chattahoochee River at the Regency Hotel in Helen, Georgia. I would be honored to have you as my guest during that time.**

McCoy, blinking hard, re-read that sentence twice. —**honored to have you as my guest**— Spock? _Spock_ had written this?

**Only a few meetings will require my direct presence; my subordinates will be handling most of the work. After the conclusion of the meetings I will be taking some extended personal time and would like to accept your often-repeated invitation to spend some of my leave with you at your family home in Conyers.**

Again he re-read the sentence. His heart was thumping hard now, and from the way the envoy was trying not to stare, his face must be flooded with emotion.

**I have left instructions with the Consulate to contact me immediately when your reply is returned by the envoy bringing this message, regardless of the hour or circumstance. I will then make arrangements to speak with you directly tomorrow at your hotel in Atlanta.**

**Peace and long life,**

**Spock**

_Well. Well, I'll be damned. I'll be—_

Because it was so plain to him now, so obvious.

Spock, stoically saying goodbye to his mother, forbidding himself to mourn in the way that would have pleased her most. McCoy had thought then that the last trace of Spock's humanity had blown away on that thin Vulcan wind.

Spock, learning of the disappearance of Scotty's ship all those years ago. McCoy tried to contact him at the time; he'd been told that Spock was on a diplomatic errand and couldn't be reached. Even Uhura, with all her contacts, hadn't found a way to speak to him. They had finally gotten a terse message from the Consulate, conveying Spock's acknowledgment and regret at the loss.

And Spock, when the search for Jim Kirk had, finally, been declared officially abandoned. A vid-network reporter had managed somehow to find and corner him, shove a recorder unit in his face, and demand a reaction. The legendary captain must be eulogized by his equally legendary first officer.

Spock's brief comment had been broadcast and re-broadcast; McCoy must have seen it a dozen times, and a dozen times muttered, "Damn cold-hearted Vulcan! Unbelievable!" as Spock's impassive image said:

"It is, of course, an incalculable loss to Starfleet and to the Federation."

_I watched it over and over and never saw it. I never recognized—the same look was on his face at Amanda's katra fi'salan_.

Spock, being more Vulcan than Surak so no one could see the raw pain of his grief in losing his friend. And McCoy, engulfed in his own grief, had missed it.

_Well, I'll be damned. Spock was right all along—emotions block logic. I never saw what was going on till I started figuring it out, step by step. Who'd have thought it?_

The old doctor looked down again at the magnificent IDIC. Rough, smooth; plain, resplendent; the same basic artifact as any other IDIC, yet individual as DNA. Wood, hard to find and precious. Stone and gem from Mount Seleya, where he and Spock had shared an experience no one else living could even begin to imagine.

McCoy's cheeks had already started to ache as, grinning, he anticipated the conversations he and Spock were going to have. _Of course, I will_ _have to point out where all that logic has led you…._

He looked up. Joanna and the hotel manager had entered the ballroom and were approaching him. The envoy, like a sentry, remained at his post. McCoy addressed him. "What's your name, young fella?"

"I am called Storak."

"Well, Storak, you haven't been standin' here watchin' an old man read a letter just for the fun of it. Spock wants an answer."

"That is correct."

"So it's logical to assume you've got a message padd on you, right?"

"It is," Storak affirmed, reaching into his robes and producing it.

Joanna and the manager had reached him now. McCoy leaned back comfortably in his red plush chair, eyes twinkling. He felt like an orchestra conductor. "All right, folks, here's the plan." The doctor re-folded the letter, gently closed the lid of the teakwood box, and slipped them into the silk bag. "JoJo, you're the only person in the world I'd trust with this. You and this gentleman put it in the hotel safe. Put a couple armed security guards over it if you've got 'em!" He handed the bag to his daughter, gleefully noting the manager's dismayed face.

McCoy turned to Storak, accepted the message padd, and said, "Now you just wait here for about ten minutes." The padd was vid-capable—even better. Spock would read McCoy's whole answer on his face before he said a word. Padd in hand, McCoy retreated to the farthest corner of the room.

Less than ten minutes later the old doctor was back, a bounce in his step, handing the padd to the envoy. "Now, son, I know you have to get back to the Consulate. But before you go, I'm inviting you to have a drink—on me—to celebrate my birthday. Tell that bartender over there to mix you up a tall, frosty mint julep." McCoy gestured expansively, and with his most beguiling smile said, "Part of your diplomatic education—participating in a native Earth ritual."

Storak, looking very mildly confused, accepted the padd and put it into the diplomatic pouch. McCoy raised his right hand. "Gimme a minute here. This was hard enough before I had arthritis." He manipulated his fingers into the Vulcan salute. "Live long and prosper, son, and all the rest of it. Now go on and get yourself that julep. Go on, now."

The envoy returned the salute. "I believe the correct phrase for this occasion is, 'Many happy returns of the day.' I am honored." With a bow, he turned and, rather slowly, headed toward the bartender.

It was McCoy's ninetieth birthday and he had a lot to look forward to. Plans to make—put Spock up in the big guest room facing the lake—put in a big supply of vegetables and fruits, and—

And for now, enjoy his party. He had his family—daughter and son-in-law, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Colleagues, friends and patients were starting to come through the door, smiling and waving as they caught his eye. And there was Chris Chapel, blowing him a kiss.

McCoy raised his drink in silent salute. Murmuring, "To absent friends, not forgotten," he drained the glass. Then he went forward to greet his guests.


End file.
